


ceramic shards

by Anonymous



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Character Study, Dissociation, Gen, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Not Beta Read, POV Third Person Limited, Run-On Sentences, overusage of punctuation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-11-28 19:23:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20971751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He has a nightmare. Hot chocolate was supposed to help.





	ceramic shards

**Author's Note:**

> Written October 8, 2019: 1630 to October 9, 2019: 2307  
Edited October 10 & 11, 2019  
Just wanted to try something under the guise of anonymity. The writing is messy and some parts bleed into others, to represent Lion's thoughts, hence, "Run-On Sentences" is tagged. Be aware if it ain't your thing.

It’s late or early and he doesn’t care, but he’s woken from another nightmare. He doesn’t remember what it was about, some shapeless beings and things of demons with faces of those he cares for. There was a brief impression of those he failed to save, and he hopes have found peace from this unfair world.

A world that he’s still walking and they’re not. All because of him and his decisions for what he hoped was for the greater good (and isn’t that an ironic phrase for him). Where the nameless faces (not always nameless) will always haunt his dreams (nightmares).

He gets up, pulls on the old, worn socks he wears for his late-night escapades. Slipping on the slides where they’re resting by the doorway, the comforting wear like an old friend (loneliness and guilt) saying hello. He cracks open the door, slipping through before it creaks. He closes it with practiced ease and waits for his eyesight to adjust.

There are signs of life despite the hour, lights pouring beneath a door crack. Voices murmuring to the background noise of what he thinks are Senaviev's snores. He nods at Jackal who’s perched near the fireplace of the den, the rocking chair silent as the Spaniard sways it. A distant thud and a curse lead him to believe that there’s still someone in the labs, if few.

He makes his way downstairs to the communal kitchen, not feeling the gym (nor Bandit’s glances towards his elbows. He knows). He's craving the warmth of hot chocolate with a dash of cinnamon his mother used to add when she was feeling generous.

He quickens his steps because he hadn’t meant to think of her and that hot chocolate is sounding good right now. Flicking on the lights, he beelines towards the cabinets, where a few packets of powder sit, but that’s fine because he now needs to take his mind off of her and her arms and warmth and the tender maternal love she used to give him.

The packet tears into his mug, a gag gift that Lera had gotten for his birthday. He wasn’t expecting anything so it was a pleasant surprise. (He suspects she saw it in his file, as he had never told her the date. In their long acquaintance and the stakes in their line of work, this anniversary wasn't important.) He had stared at her for a solid five seconds before hugging her fiercely, careful of the ceramic still in his hands. The mug is white, cartoonish with its cat face plastered in the centre, and the text of “Real Men Love Cats” as a contrast to the background had made him chuckle.

The powder seems to mock him from the bottom of his mug, something that he feels spoiled about because he remembers expensive chocolate melting in the pot and peering over her shoulders with his sister, waiting for a gift of Grace. He shakes away the thought, reaching for the half-empty kettle that he reheated and pours it in.

It steams with memories he thought long buried with anger and hate and disappointment (of himself or his family, he doesn’t know anymore). The eagerness for the smoothness of liquefied chocolate. The excitement of doing something behind his father’s back (who never actually refused them, if he thought about it). The foamy grins that they siblings shared with a fond mother looking onwards.

He picks it up and it feels the same as it would years ago in an urban house that was too big for its occupants. The heat emanates from the ceramic with a muted smell because of the powder and water. He hovers his face over the rim and the steam warms his face with yellow-orange lights and laughter.

So he takes the watery first sip and he feels—

He feels sick like that time in school where he sat in a corner of the class (his corner) with a pile of tissues next to him and a headache to boot because his parents thought he was making excuses again—come on, it was one time where he faked sick to sneak out (okay it was two, but The Cranberries had a show in the Zénith arena, of course, he was going to go, he screamed himself hoarse but it was worth it)—and sent him off to <strike>prison</strike> school.

But then they thought he was made of lies and he remembers vehemently wishing to pass out to prove them wrong. Having close calls through rugby practice and he did, when he got back to the house and collapsed in the doorway. Sophie had found him here, hours later, with a 40° fever. He remembers feeling vindicated but not much else, another petty desire fulfilled, one of many, many useless memories.

At least they had taken him seriously after that, even if it had come with considerable amounts of prodding and checking his wastebasket for evidence. What sucks more now, he thinks, is their treatment of how his “gayness” is a sickness (he’s actually bi, thank you very much).

And he does appreciate what the Catholic faith stands for—cooperation, mentorship, kindness, not the utter unacceptance that they’ve drilled into him despite returning and hoping his love for God, found again, was enough. That God loved him enough to forgive him and still love him for his faults and his interests. His family, of course, finds new ways to prove him wrong—even after he has been kicked out, hasn’t been under their roof for years—they still try to make him their’s despite the fact that his wings have already spread and he’s fled the nest. Apparently you can’t be a soldier or a gay, or even worse, both.

He can admit to himself that most of his ire directs towards his parents, almost all, but the fact that Sophie? The older sister that he looked up to and revered and tried to emulate? The fact that his sister who was so so strong stood down (not once, but twice) when her father declared that he was not quite disowned but close e-fucking-nough for all it was worth, out of the house and was not welcome, don’t ever show your disgraceful face here ever again and the slam of the door sounding like the crack of thunder and would you look at that it’s raining, and what a shitshow his life has become and he walks, walks, and walks and walks and walks and cries because in his mind’s eye he’s seeing his mother’s sadness of losing her son on Claire’s face and the continuous loop of it because he ruined his mother’s son (twice), his girlfriend’s child (son) and he’s seventeen, _what do you even want him to do_—

The sharp pain of ceramic on his socked feet is distant, numb. He stares at it, the mug broken on the cracked white tiles and a puddle of light grey-brown and powdered chocolate. He stares at it, unseeing because there’s a vase on the ground instead, something blue and black and shouting in his ears. He counts to ten, waits it out. There's a deafening silence in his ears and he realizes his toes are wet.

He blinks but then Bandit’s in front of him with a raised eyebrow (was Bandit there the whole time?) and a blank face as if waiting for Olivier to lash out. He doesn’t have enough energy to throw anything at Bandit so he looks down, takes in the sight again and says,

“Oh.”

He doesn’t have to look up to see the look on the other man’s face, feeling his exasperation. It's familiar, but he feels distant. Almost like he’s outside of his mind right now, an observer of the happenings around him, the cup on the floor.

The shards of the mug are salvageable, he thinks, the pieces big enough to glue together. He thinks Lera will understand but have something like disappointment in her eyes when she sees it. He hates that. Hates disappointing people he cares about, the people he bothers to care about, but at least Lera is Lera. An amazing woman who’s scarily competent and so determined yet kind and huggable when she’s not beating you into the mats. Struggling with inner demons that he thinks have to deal with health and disease, understanding in her eyes as Olivier laughs self-deprecatingly.

Bandit clears his throat, knocking him out of his thoughts (again) and nodding at the mess of hot chocolate on the floor. “How about you sit down and I’ll get a mop?”

A suggestion framed as a question and he’s still too tired to feel offended by it, so Olivier only glares to keep up appearances. He hunches into his sweater, forgoing the posture that's ingrained in him. He’s halfway to the living room couches when he finds his voice.

“Don’t,” he croaks, ignoring the state of his voice, he continues, “don’t throw out the mug.”

Bandit makes a vague noise of agreement. Olivier shouldn't feel assured, considering Blackbeard's hair is still green. The American wasn't able to bleach it to make himself less of a target for the OPFOR, given the suddenness of the crisis and a prolonged mission that still has everyone on edge, but...it's been a long week and Bandit's willing to help (for some reason).

The minutes tick by and Olivier feels blank, with only white noise in his head and the anticipation of a band about to take the stage. There are so many things he could (should) think about right now but it’s only empty in his head, his mind, his thoughts. He feels it in his body, his heart, the tips of his fingers and he thinks he’s delirious because it’s all starting to sound poetic in his head and when is he ever?

He stares his damp socks, his slides sticky from cheap chocolate, then the ground with its barren concrete floor. He thinks the carpet is Hibana's touch, picking apart the threads with his eyes, the frayed ends of it from operators stepping on it. It’s a welcome observation, the rugs and rich carpetings were all supposed to be perfect, not a strand out of place when guests were over at the house. Not his home, never his home.

There’s something pressed to his hands, hot, more so than his earlier cup was. He looks up to see a frothy chocolate drink that looks better than his attempt and Bandit who’s already chugging from his own mug. So he takes another sip of hot chocolate—

—and it’s not bad. So he finishes it all to the sound of a distant generator kicking the dust and the silence of the late-night early morning hours as it wraps its arms around them. It’s milky and he can still taste powder but there aren’t chunks so he doesn’t complain, even if it sometimes goes down his throat like drywall dust from Sledge’s hammer. Bandit doesn’t talk, just drinks his drink and washes the mug, a plain German flag that replaced his crude grenade after a few joking throws too many.

Olivier remembers that day, the “head’s up” someone had called out and then a crash, which had several people jumping in their seats. He would never admit he was one of them (but he was) and everyone’s eyes were accusing as they looked towards the sound. There were the shattered pieces of an unidentifiable mug, except for the fact that only one gets tossed around like a toy. The people around were quick to point fingers, humourous accusations that dissolved into a food fight. He remembers having to wash egg yolk from his hair and knowing immediately who threw it because the little snitch had told him she was going to get more coffee, and low and behold, the younger Bosak was smirking from behind him in the midst of the food fight. Following that, he had nailed Gustave in the back of the head with French toast, muffling his laughter and ducking when The Good Doctor looked over. Just because he’s trying to make things right doesn’t mean he’s not petty. It is a fond memory.

Olivier finishes as Bandit sits down on the couch and wraps a blanket around himself and picks up a book that Olivier can’t quite see the title of. He runs the mug under the tap, methodically rubbing at the stains until they disappeared. He sets it upside down on the rack, snorting as he sees the message on the bottom of the cup. He then gleefully wipes his hands on the Union Jack and turns off the kitchen lights.

There’s a little bundle on the counter with the pieces of Lera’s gift. Olivier cradles it in his hands as he looks at Bandit who's still reading. Olivier hesitates at the archway, debating his choices before finally saying, “Thank you.”

He leaves before Brunsmeier snarks back, leaving the German with his book and warm light cascading on him like the blanket around his shoulders.

* * *

Olivier finds a tube of superglue on his desk two days later. He smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Kudos/comments/constructive criticism welcome. Have a good one.


End file.
